


red

by thehomodabrothers (orphan_account)



Category: Big Hero 6 (2014)
Genre: Bittersweet, Gen, something experimental
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-21
Updated: 2015-07-21
Packaged: 2018-04-10 12:25:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4391786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/thehomodabrothers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the colour their parents car used to be. And the colour of a kabuki mask, and the colour of fire, and the colour of <i>anger.</i></p><p>(It's also, as it turns out, the colour of healing wounds.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	red

**Author's Note:**

> this is a little...different from the kind of thing i normally do. i get the feeling it's not going to be terribly popular, but i wanted to try. 
> 
> please tell me what you think.
> 
> by thehomodabrothers.

 

 

 

i. Tadashi.

 

 

It’s the colour of Hiro’s very first birthday card.

Tadashi pokes his head over the crib, marveling at how _small_ his new little brother is. His face is pudgy and squished, not fully formed and kind of ridiculous. Tadashi thinks that babies are supposed to be cute, not look like small sausage-creatures. There must be something wrong with this one.

He raises this issue to his parents, and they laugh at him and promise that Hiro will be adorable before Tadashi even knows it. Tadashi doubts this. The usual slew of people have left and everyone’s done cooing for the day, so Tadashi is left alone in the baby’s room to observe and wonder if he ever looked like that when he was born. Such a thing would have been…unfortunate. Still, he supposes Hiro can be forgiven, simply because he doesn’t know any better. He’ll figure out the whole _cute_ thing eventually. Until then, Tadashi very generously decides that he will simply have to love Hiro either way.

Hiro yawns, and Tadashi acts on impulse and pokes the baby’s tiny pink tongue. Hiro gums his finger.

…alright. Maybe he _is_ a little cute.

 

 

It’s the colour of Hiro’s cheeks as he starts to grow, rosy and chubby and always crinkling his eyes at the corners with a smile. Hiro is remarkably noisy for such a small thing, and Tadashi’s learnt to worry if his two-year-old brother ever goes quiet.

He doesn’t mind. Hiro has performed admirably in the task of becoming aesthetically pleasing, and he now follows Tadashi around with the tenacity of a duckling. Tadashi indulges him, takes him on his knee with all the wisdom of his seven years and informs his little brother that they’re going to be best friends _forever_. Hiro finds this hilarious and tries to grab Tadashi’s ears, so Tadashi retaliates the only way he knows how: he blows raspberries into his little brother’s belly until Hiro laughs so hard he hiccups. His face is the silliest colour Tadashi’s ever seen.

 

 

It’s the colour his parents car used to be. Tadashi doesn’t want to think about that car. It’s no longer pretty, anyway; he can imagine what it must look like now, twisted into terrible shapes and upholstery stained with something it shouldn’t be. The same colour as Hiro’s face, this time flushed with the force of his screaming. He doesn’t understand. How could he? He’s three years old, he thinks his parents have left him, and Tadashi holds him still even as Hiro’s thrashing clips him on the chin. An adult tries to take Hiro from him, just to calm him down. Tadashi does not let go.

(Hiro doesn’t understand, but Tadashi does, and he will _not_ have his family taken from him again.)

 

 

It’s the colour of the sign above the Lucky Cat Café. Of the moving truck as the very last of their things are hauled into the attic. It’s the colour of the sheets and the curtains and it makes their room look warm, filtering the sunlight and making it seem like it’s coming through their window just to wrap them up for a while. Hiro toddles away to investigate the toy chest and Tadashi turns to Aunt Cass. Her eyes are the same colour as his have been, lately, and he thinks of her crying into a pillow at night.

She’s not quite like him, though. She covers it up with smiles and makeup and the longer she tries the more real her happiness becomes. She heals, and somehow that healing is paradoxically infectious. Hiro stops screaming. Tadashi stops crying in his sleep. The smell of bread becomes natural and the sight of Aunt Cass behind the counter of the café becomes _home._

Tadashi decides this shade of lipstick quite suits her. He’ll have to remember to compliment her when he gets the chance.

 

 

It’s the colour of the grades on his report card. Straight A’s, just like always, and Hiro proudly shows off the same result. Everyone says envy is supposed to be green, but Tadashi disagrees, thinks envy must be something much harsher as he crumples up his grades when Hiro gets more attention _yet again._ It’s not Hiro’s fault. He knows it isn’t, his baby brother is just a genius, there’s no blaming anyone in this situation. Tadashi should be proud. Should hang up Hiro’s results the way Aunt Cass does, but it’s all he can do not to snap when the poor boy tries to show him his math homework. Tadashi’s smart. He knows he is, he’s just not smart _enough,_ not since Hiro became part of the picture.

He doesn’t say this. Instead he sighs, makes space on his bed, and starts to teach Hiro about calculus.

 

 

It’s the colour of the blood that seeps from Hiro’s nose as he clenches his fists and tries his damnest not to cry. Tadashi scowls. The expression must be frightening on him, he knows, but he makes no attempt to school it into something more neutral. For all that Hiro is a genius, he’s still tiny and frail, and he needs to be protected. Tadashi’s always known this, but he’s never _felt_ it like this. The exact same colour is on the knuckles of a boy twice Hiro’s size, and that boy cowers when Tadashi swoops down on him with all the righteous fury of an avenging angel. Good. Tadashi decides that this is a good time to teach this kid a lesson, and tells him, quite succinctly, to _leave his little brother alone._

If he bares his teeth a little when he says it, that’s no skin off his nose.

 

 

It’s the colour of his very first moped, shined to within an inch of its life and cared for like a beloved child. The colour doesn’t last very long. Dings and scrapes become decoration before the year is out; not only does Hiro have a habit of trying to ride the thing, but Tadashi repeatedly has to put his poor scooter through hell just to rescue his idiot brother from even _more_ bullies.

So he does the only thing he can do. He takes Hiro to his university and lets the kid fall in love just like Tadashi did.

Before too long, it’s the same colour as the seal on Hiro’s acceptance letter, too.

 

 

But it’s also the colour of firetrucks. The firetrucks that _aren’t there_ when the building goes up in flames. Tadashi’s heading back before he can even really thinking about what’s happening, Hiro on his heels as Tadashi stops a woman fleeing for her life to ask her what’s going on. Callaghan’s still in there. _Callaghan’s still in there._

So he goes in. Of course he does, because he’s spent his whole life knowing that all he wants is for other people to be safe. Callaghan has a daughter; he talks about her all the time, tells stories in the middle of class about his precocious girl and how she’s made him proud. Tadashi knows what it’s like to lose a protector. He knows what it’s like and he _can’t let her go through the same thing he did,_ not when there’s even a sliver of a chance that he might be able to help. So he pulls away from Hiro’s grip. Runs straight into the flames. Doesn’t look back, because he knows that seeing his little brother alone and scared is going to make him lose his nerve.

 

But Tadashi has to keep going. He _has_ to.

 

He almost makes it, too.

 

 

It’s the very last colour he sees before the building collapses around him.

 

* * *

 

ii. Hiro.

 

 

It’s not the colour of the funeral.

It _is_ the colour he sees in his dreams, staining the insides of his eyelids every night until he wakes up crying and gasping for breath. It’s the colour of nightmares; the colour of his palms when he digs his fingernails into skin so hard that they bleed, the colour that rims his eyes because he doesn’t sleep, _can’t_ sleep anymore, not when sleeping is infinitely worse than being awake. When he’s awake the world is grey and dull and hollow, but when he sleeps the world is either warm (his brother is alive, all of this is a bad dream, he’s here for Hiro and always will be) or it _burns_ (he’s too late, too slow, his brother is running forward and everything is _hothothot)._

He prefers the grey.

 

 

It’s also the colour of a kabuki mask. It’s angry and lethal and its features are painted harsh and unforgiving, and Hiro thinks of a snarl even though the man behind it effectively has no face. It’s the colour of fear as Hiro runs for his life, but it’s also the colour, as it turns out, of _hope._ The colour of the silly little fighting chip he installs into his chubby companion. He realises in retrospect that this is a truly _terrible_ idea, but it still makes everything seem so much brighter. More dangerous, yes (the colour nearly gets them killed, _there are no stop lights in a car chase),_ but still things are finally _bright._

It’s the colour of hot metal, which he accidentally burns himself on until GoGo throws a pair of gloves at him. The suits are hard to build but _awesome,_ and Hiro watches his friends practice with their gear and thinks that they might actually win this time around. With his help, of course; Baymax’s upgrades test the very limits of Hiro’s capabilities, and the robot’s armour glints in the daylight with a colour that Hiro _loves._ It’s pure, and it’s strong, and for the first time in a while, Hiro forgets about fire and thinks instead about the sun and how good it feels to fly.

 

 

It’s the colour of rage _._ Pure and unfiltered, huge and twisting and ripping and _everywhere,_ just like the microbots, just like the fire, just like Hiro’s voice as he screams and screams and screams. The colour of the mask, again, except it’s cracked and on the floor and the man behind it is no longer hiding and _he_

 

_died_

 

_because_

 

_of_

 

_you._

 

 

Baymax’s eyes glow in the very same shade. His fists break through concrete and Hiro’s friends do their best, but still Baymax’s eyes glow that colour, the colour that _should_ be splattered all over the walls and down Hiro’s front and _he’s escaping, don’t you see, I had him I had him I want to make him **hurt.**_

 

(It occurs to him, as the building comes down, that maybe his colour and Callaghan’s are the same.)

 

 

It’s the colour of the little ‘recording’ symbol on Baymax’s stomach. The colour of Tadashi’s t-shirt as he cheers into the camera, bouncing in place and mouth smiling wide and the first think he thinks of is _Hiro,_ of all things. Not his reputation, not the rest of the world, just Hiro. Baymax stops the video and Hiro thinks dimly that he’s been doing a lot of crying, lately, even as he shakes and sniffles and smiles at the same time.

He’s not like Tadashi. He never will be, but that doesn’t mean he still can’t make his older brother proud.

 

 

It’s the colour of danger. Of police sirens, of panic and screaming as Callaghan tears up Krei’s building. But this time it’s different. This time Hiro’s prepared. He’s got his team behind him, and he realises now that the colour of the kabuki mask is _different_ from his. Callaghan is dyed in madness and rust, and _Hiro’s_ colour is bright and brave and much, much cleaner. Hiro’s colour is the same colour as Baymax’s scanner as it beeps to inform them that _she’s alive in there._ It’s the same colour as the flashing lights that take Abigail to safety and her father to justice. Hiro watches them go and thinks that this is, after all, the only shade that really suits him.

 

 

It’s the colour of the daisies he leaves at Tadashi’s grave. And now, he’s not alone; there are five other people behind him, if you count the robot. Five other people who hug him against his will until he laughs at them and tells them he’s fine, and this time it’s clear that he really means it.

 

 

He’s okay. It still hurts, and he misses his brother (they _all_ do), but he’s okay. He’s got a little piece of him left still, a tiny chip the size of his palm, made something special by a walking marshmallow that still doesn’t know how to fist bump and has a habit of picking him up for no rhyme or reason. Made something special by Hiro, too; it’s their very last joint project. The best thing either of them will ever create, Hiro thinks as he soars through the city on the back of his best friend. The Hamada brothers’ legacy, and Hiro stretches out his arms, lifts up his visor just to feel the wind whip across his face and make his eyes water.

 

 

 If he keeps his gaze forward, he can pretend that somewhere in this world, Tadashi’s looking at the same horizon as he is.

 

 

It’s the colour of the sunset, and it’s _beautiful._

 

 

 


End file.
